Dear Everyone
by Todash
Summary: At the holidays, B.J. sends out the Pierce-Hunnicutt newsletter to their 4077th friends. Slash content, B.J./Hawkeye.
1. Chapter 1

**Dear Everyone**

_Christmas 1955_

Dear 4077th friends:

I hope this letter finds you all well and looking forward to the Christmas season. I've decided a holiday newsletter is in order, which probably comes as no surprise. After all, you guys know me—the party-organizer, the one who can't quite accept the fact that we're no longer living together as a family. I miss you all and I hope we can stay in close contact with one another no matter how many years pass since the dark days of the war that brought us together.

First things first: although the vast majority of you already know this, there may be a few who haven't heard. Peg and I got divorced in early 1954, and Hawkeye and I are a couple now. He moved out here to Mill Valley in the spring of that year. At first he was working at a local clinic as a GP, but I was able to pull some strings and get him into the hospital where I've been working since returning home from Korea, San Francisco General. Peg has remained in the Bay area, and Hawkeye and I get Erin on most weekends. He's really good with her—he's a natural father—and she simply adores him.

Those of you who remember the Swamp (and who wouldn't?) would probably be surprised to hear that our little suburban house is neat and cozy and very kid-friendly. We have a small patch of a backyard where Erin has a sandbox to play in. Right now, Hawkeye is decorating a cute, just-a-bit-taller-than-him Christmas tree in the corner of the living room, and three Christmas stockings are already hung over the fireplace. We have a comfortable daily routine: we both work the first shift at the hospital so we commute together. Most evenings I do the cooking. He washes, I dry. He mows the lawn but I handle the handyman-type stuff. We go to the movies a lot, even if we do miss having our favorite Lebanese cross-dresser running the projector. If I'm making it sound like we're living in fairy-tale domestic bliss, well… good. Because we are.

Speaking of you, Klinger: we were delighted to hear that you and Soon-Lee found her parents, alive and well in the farmlands of Korea, even if it did take much longer than you imagined it would. We're even more thrilled to know that you're now back home in Toledo, where you belong! Someday we'll come visit. We're dying to eat at Packo's.

Father Mulcahy, it's a shame that the first operation didn't entirely resolve your hearing loss, but we're optimistic that the next one will get you closer, if not 100%. Please keep us posted. I'll be praying for you, while Hawkeye simply sends his good thoughts, since he's still the agnostic you knew and loved back at the mighty 4077th.

The rest of you: please let us hear from you. Sometimes it doesn't seem possible that only a couple years have passed since we all said goodbye, but other times it seems like that experience was decades ago. You know, we really ought to think about planning a reunion—

"Hawk, what the hell are you doing?" B.J. said in exasperation, his pen suddenly stilled by his partner's obnoxious hovering at his elbow.

"Look up," Hawkeye said, a tease in his voice.

B.J. did, and saw that Hawkeye was holding something above his head. "What is that?"

Hawkeye made a _tsk _sound as though he couldn't believe how dense his boyfriend was. "Mistletoe, you dummy!" And then he swooped in for a breathtaking kiss on the mouth that lasted… and lasted… and lasted. And included a lot of tongue.

Eventually they came up for air. But only because they had to.

"Mmmm, that's nice," B.J. purred. "But don't get started. I'm in the middle of writing this newsletter—"

"Pish tosh! Finish it up tomorrow. I'm done decorating the tree and you have mistletoe above your head. All the signs are there, Beej. Bedtime! Come on." Hawk took hold of B.J.'s hand and tugged.

Not only was there no point in arguing, B.J. didn't really want to. He smiled sweetly, put his pen down, and let himself be pulled out of his chair and in the direction of the bedroom.

The inaugural edition of the 4077th holiday newsletter was just going to have to wait.


	2. Chapter 2

_Christmas 1959_

Dear everyone,

Greetings, and welcome to the 1959 edition of the Pierce-Hunnicutt holiday missive. Where does the time go? We're doing well and hope this letter finds you all healthy and happy.

The biggest news we have to share this time is that we now get Erin one week a month in addition to every weekend. Peg's gotten so busy with the clothing store she opened last year that she welcomes our help in taking care of our precocious little 8-year-old. And of course, we love having her around. She's whip-smart and very well-mannered, and she's starting to adopt Hawkeye's warped sense of humor. Lord give me strength. She and Hawkeye have been writing a story together for the past few weeks. I would send it along with this newsletter, but they're not done yet and they're pretty adamant about nobody reading it (except for me… aren't I privileged?) until it's finished.

Sherman, we're so happy to hear that Mildred has fully recovered from her bout of pleurisy. Of course, she had the best damn doctor she could've ever hoped for by her side, so that helped a lot, I'm sure.

Radar, we're really looking forward to stopping by in February after our convention in Chicago. We can't wait to meet your mom, see your farm, get all caught up, and experience Ottumwa. We'll have a rental car, so we also plan to take a detour to Bloomington and visit Henry Blake's widow, Lorraine. Hawkeye says there's a son who was born while Henry was in Korea (that'd make him 9 now), and Hawk has some photos he wants to give to the kid.

Dammit, we keep saying we ought to get a reunion planned and it never seems to happen, does it? One of these days, folks—

There was a sudden peal of high-pitched, little-girl laughter, startling B.J. He looked up from his writing just in time to see his daughter bolting through the living room and into the kitchen, Hawkeye in close pursuit.

"Don't mind us, Beej," Hawkeye said, breathless. "A certain little girl is in biiiig trouble!"

B.J. waved a hand. "I don't even want to know what's going on."

But he continued to watch and listen as his two favorite people raced around the house, though he knew perfectly well that Hawkeye could catch Erin in an instant if he really wanted to. Child and adult feet stomped up stairs and back down again… giggles echoed from room to room. B.J. smiled broadly, shaking his head in wonderment. God, what a crazy, lovable, loopy family he had.


	3. Chapter 3

_Christmas 1964_

Hello, 4077th family:

Erin has informed me, a little too gleefully, that she thinks my newsletters are boring. "Blah blah blah," is how she put it. (She's 13, can you tell?) She said I ought to jazz it up by making it read like a weekend at the movies. So with that in mind… here's what the Pierce-Hunnicutt clan has been up to.

We had action and adventure in April, when the three of us drove to Arizona to see the Grand Canyon, and followed that with a stop in San Diego to visit Margaret and Paul (hi, guys!) for a few days. Horror came our way when Erin's cat Muffin was hit and killed by a car in June (Hawkeye and I tried, but we could not save it). Science fiction seemed to rear its head with the arrival of a peculiar new colleague at the hospital, one Dr. Andrew Gershow; Hawkeye's convinced he's a pod person straight out of _Invasion of the Body Snatchers_. (In truth, he's a pretty nice guy who just has a lot of oddball habits.) We seem to have nonstop drama with a 13-year-old in our house, but on the other hand, with this wacky family of mine, I feel like I'm living in one of the great comedies of all time.

And as for romance? Hawkeye and I couldn't possibly be happier or more in love.

That's one heck of a movie weekend, isn't it?

Margaret and Paul, thanks again for your hospitality. We had a great time visiting you, and Erin still talks about that enormous Rottweiler of yours. She sends him a sloppy smooch.

Charles, we were absolutely thrilled to hear there's going to be a Charles Emerson Winchester _the Fourth! _That is, unless it's a girl, in which case we certainly hope you can come up with a more appropriate moniker. But in all seriousness, congratulations to you and Victoria. Do keep us posted.

The last time we went to visit Hawk's dad in Maine, he told us he was thinking about selling the huge Victorian house he's been living in since Hawkeye was a kid. It's way too much house for one person, and he doesn't have the energy anymore to keep up with the maintenance. Hawkeye wants him to move out here, obviously, but I really don't see that happening. The old man's just too set in his ways to make a cross-country move. We'll keep suggesting the idea to him, though, in the hope that we can persuade him—

The sweet scent emanating from the kitchen was just too intense and mouth-watering to ignore any longer. B.J. put down his pen and padded into the next room, coming up behind Hawkeye, who was pulling a sheet of cookies out of the oven.

"Mmmmm," B.J. said, putting his arms around Hawkeye and staring lovingly at the cookies. "Chocolate chip?"

"Yes, they are, but no, you can't have any yet. They're too hot." He smacked B.J.'s hand as it attempted to grab a cookie.

"Aw," B.J. protested.

"Just let them cool for a few minutes, Beej. Exercise some self-control."

"Mmm," B.J. mumbled, nibbling on Hawkeye's earlobe since he was being denied a cookie.

Hawkeye laughed. "And exercise some self-control in _that _area too. I still have one more batch to bake, so don't even try to distract—"

Too late, B.J.'s wandering hands were burrowing inside Hawkeye's shirt and the nibbling at Hawk's ear had turned into licking at his neck. Hawkeye put the cookie sheet down, shook off his oven mitts, and turned around, taking B.J. fully into his arms. He planted an enthusiastic kiss on B.J.'s mouth, and B.J. tasted…

"Chocolate!" he said when he could. "You've already eaten some cookies! I can taste it."

"I'm the baker. I'm entitled."

"Hawk," B.J. said patiently, "we _both _need to exercise some self-control. We need to take these cookies to the party tomorrow night, not eat them all right out of the oven."

"Yes, Beej," Hawkeye said, having the good sense to look contrite. "No more nibbling. Well, of _cookies_, that is."

But that wasn't to say they had to stop nibbling on each other.


	4. Chapter 4

_Christmas 1967_

Greetings, gang,

Hawkeye here. You might be wondering—as well you should—why I'm the one writing this year's Pierce-Hunnicutt newsletter. Well, I'm afraid the right/writing hand of our dear B.J. is out of commission for a while, as it sustained a nasty injury about a week ago when Beej carelessly cut into a bagel and didn't think to stop before hitting flesh. Good thing I was there to immediately tend to my bleeding, distressed patient. We both had a scare when we thought he'd cut the flexor tendon in his thumb, which of course would've meant the end of his illustrious career as a surgeon. Luckily all of his tendons, if not his brain, remain intact.

I've decided he's not allowed to have bagels ever again.

So obviously, he's not working right now, and he seems to get immense joy from running me ragged with his endless requests, "Can I have the paper? How about a bowl of soup? Don't forget the dog needs to be walked." His _left _hand works fine, not that you'd know it. Being home all day, he watches some soap opera called _The Doctors _and then tells me later how silly and unrealistic it is, but I think he's secretly and hopelessly addicted.

Ah well, as for our year gone by… other than Beej's mishap with a sharp knife, we had a wonderful 1967. Would you believe our little girl celebrated her sweet 16 in July? Not so little anymore! She's a beautiful, thoughtful, and intelligent young lady, and she seems set on going to nursing school, which ought to make you, Margaret, very proud. You've been quite a role model for her, and we thank you for that.

As most of you know, B.J. and I successfully talked my dear ol' Dad into finally moving out here to California this past spring. The old buzzard (I can call him that; after all, he tagged me with Hawkeye all those years ago) was so set in his ways out East that I was truly shocked to my socks when he agreed to move. But he's 77 now, and although he's not exactly frail, it was time for him to give up the responsibility of that huge house, not to mention get away from those nasty winters. He's living in a retirement community out here, very close by, and we see him almost daily—

"Hey Hawk?" came the call from the other room.

"Yes, Beej."

"Could you bring me my reading glasses? I left them in the bathroom."

Hawkeye rolled his eyes. "Your _feet _are not injured, Beej. Get up and get them yourself!"

"It's just that I'm all settled in bed with my hand propped up on the pillow, and I thought you'd be helpful and get them for me—"

"All right, all right." Hawkeye let out a heavy sigh and said sayonara to his train of thought as he headed to the bathroom to fetch B.J.'s glasses. "I'm also doing this_ other _favor for you, by the way," he called out. "Writing the newsletter, remember?"

"You're the best, Hawk."

"Uh huh." He spied the glasses on the bathroom floor (and how dangerous was that? They could've been stepped on and shattered), picked them up, and hoofed it down the hallway to the bedroom. "Here, found 'em." B.J. was indeed all settled in bed, sheets pooled around his legs, a book in his good hand.

"Thanks, Hawk. Sorry if I bothered you."

Hawkeye laughed. "You're not sorry, you love being waited on hand and foot. But that's OK." He leaned down and kissed B.J. "As it happens, I love waiting on you."

B.J. put down the book and used his good hand to grab Hawkeye's shirt so he could help himself to another kiss. "You're too good to me."

"And don't you ever forget it."

B.J. smiled. "Do a good job with the newsletter."

Hawkeye put a hand to his chest in mock indignation. "Uh, excuse me. Do you know who you're talking to? Silver-tongued, silver-penned Hawkeye Pierce… your friendly walking thesaurus, your lovable logophile—"

"OK, OK," B.J. cut him off before he could get too far into one of his rambling rants. "Sorry I ever doubted you. I owe you big for writing that for me."

Hawk's eyebrows bounced up and down in his Groucho Marx leer. "Oh, you owe me, do you?" In the next instant, he was on the bed, scooching B.J. over a little, getting comfortable and snuggling up against him. "No sense in waiting. Why not show your appreciation now?"

B.J. couldn't help laughing. "Weren't you in the middle of writing?"

"You've already derailed my train of thought. You might as well make it worthwhile…" He leaned in and put his mouth softly on B.J.'s, eliciting a moan. Then he gently took B.J.'s injured hand in his, caressing it. "How about if I kiss this and make it better?"

"That sounds nice," B.J. murmured. "And after you're done kissing my hand, you can move on to any other body parts you'd like."

As it turned out, there were a lot of body parts that Hawkeye liked, and he took his good time exploring them. Holiday newsletter be damned.


End file.
